Wednesday, Mar. 10, 2010

Hoping for later goodbyes

I once knew a mother. Outside of the casual hello, we didn't speak much. I'd never met her husband. I'd only recognize two of her children.

So perhaps I didn't really know her at all.

But I do know that when I started writing this, she wasn't well. Shortly after she was diagnosed, a grim disease was trying to win control of her body. And although her friends said her will couldn't be crushed, in the midst of writing this I learned she'd lost her battle.

Suddenly, I forgot that until recently, I didn't know where she grew up or her age.

Suddenly, I felt connected to her, as did every mother at school. For she could've just as well been a teacher. A neighbor. A sister. A dear friend. She could've been any of us.

This is when, as mothers, our differences melt away. Those judgments we make about each other disappear. Something so tragic erases it all, at least for a while.

This is when, as mothers, we're reminded that it doesn't matter who hangs with whom or where we live. It doesn't matter whether we volunteer at school or work outside the home, in the home, or don't work at all.

It only matters that another young woman - a mother - has fallen victim to cancer.

It's a not-so-silent nudge to be grateful for having another day. For eventually we'll leave behind our children. We just hope it's later rather than sooner.